of anything

The world is not made up of anything

it's coloured lights and homophones
and understandings, all alone

at bottomless depths of personal wells,
and you can accept the metaphors
and let the walls close in, for sure
but just enough

that you could brace
yourself
between and climb that way,
all the way up, but
when you got
to very top, and felt
the open air stir in, and even see
a tease of stars -
as one
of them falls! Before your eyes,

you would gasp and strive
and climb, those last few yards
with aching joints and burning limbs,
and suffering, bracing hard with broken nails
on nerveless hands, you'd wedge and hoist
yourself so far, so endlessly near,
the last six feet
in agonizing push and helpless pull,
against defeat, and pull
and pull your body up
and out, and
over

the stony, unforgiving rim
to find

the world
is not made up of anything,
the world

the world is not
made up


Take deep breaths now, and squeeze
and cry your eyelids shut
and count to ten, or any number
that feels
good, that reassures
your sense of when. And let
your fingers, reach and touch. Then

open eyes, and figure out
just where you really are, and why

it hurts so much